


merry foreigners in our morning

by jinlinli



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, And Knives?, Dorks in Love, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Fluff, Hipster Steve Rogers, M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Ridiculous Paint Names, the "accidentally broke into the wrong apartment" au that no one needs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-27
Updated: 2017-03-27
Packaged: 2018-10-11 10:04:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10462344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jinlinli/pseuds/jinlinli
Summary: The guy shuffles uncomfortably under the weight of his gaze and says, “You’re not Sam.”“Who the fuck is Sam?”“Well, for one thing, he’s nicer than you, and he lives in—” he scrabbles through his pockets before pulling out a scrap of paper and squinting at it, “3F.”Bucky sighs and rubs his temples. “You got the wrong apartment, genius. This is 3E.”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [deceptivesoldier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deceptivesoldier/gifts), [MajorKoalaTea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajorKoalaTea/gifts).



> soooo i corrupted [michelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajorKoalaTea/pseuds/MajorKoalaTea) into turning to the dark side (read: writing angst) much to [avery's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InvigorateTheWinterSoldier/pseuds/InvigorateTheWinterSoldier) horror. i guess you can call this my reparation fluff fic hahaha

There is nothing quite as disturbing as living alone and waking up to the sound of someone stumbling around your apartment at fuck o’clock in the morning. Bucky sits up slowly, listening to the muffled crash and string of curses as he gropes for the bedside table. It’s for occasions like these that Natasha had tucked—of all things—a butcher’s knife in his drawers before patting his hand and saying, “Sleep well. Don’t die.”

He hadn’t thought that would _actually_ come in handy.

The bedsprings creak when he shifts his weight, but the intruder doesn’t seem to notice it over the obnoxious racket he’s making. Bucky folds the knife into his hand and stalks warily into the next room.

The intruder’s back is turned to him when he enters. He’s staring at the far wall with his hands braced on his hips, and he’s muttering to himself. Bucky knows better than to judge an opponent based on appearance (he knows Natasha after all) but he can’t help but loosen his guard somewhat when he gets a look at the intruder.

He’s a few inches shy of average height, built compactly with awkwardly large hands, knobby knees, and a slight bend to his spine. His jeans are fitted rather well, and he’s wearing workman’s boots, but his shirt is almost absurdly oversized. His hair is bright in the yellow streetlight streaming in through the open window.

Bucky blinks. He wouldn’t just forget to close his window. He’s not that kind of guy. He doesn’t necessarily _lock_ it every night, but he lives on the third floor of his apartment building for Christ’s sake.

“How the fuck did you get in here?”

The intruder whips around to stare at Bucky. And well, that wasn’t the face he expected to see on that sort of body. The guy’s nose is almost too large for his face, and the square jaw and heavy brow belongs on a taller, broader man. It would be an unflattering combination, and maybe it’s the late hour or the poor lighting, but the guy is almost _striking._ Not attractive or handsome per se, but it’s a face that Bucky could keep looking at for a long time.

He’s also staring at him like a moron.

Bucky frowns. “Well?”

The guy shuffles uncomfortably under the weight of his gaze and says, “You’re not Sam.”

“Who the _fuck_ is Sam?”

“Well, for one thing, he’s _nicer_ than you, and he lives in—” he scrabbles through his pockets before pulling out a scrap of paper and squinting at it, “3F.”

Bucky sighs and rubs his temples. “You got the wrong apartment, genius. This is 3E.”

“No, it’s not,” the guys says.

“Are you kidding me?”

“I know I’m right. 3F is the second apartment from the end.”

“Yeah, and you got the third apartment. Now would you kindly tell me how you even got into my goddamn apartment?”

“Through the window.”

That _fucker_. He really did scale up the side of the building.

“I live on the third floor,” Bucky says.

“Yeah, I know. I’m Steve, by the way.” The guy— _Steve_ —shrugs and plops onto Bucky’s couch. He winces when the springs squeal angrily at him. “Why is your furniture so loud?”

Bucky groans. It’s way too early to deal with this. “Get out of my apartment.”

“Usually people respond here with their name,” Steve says.

“Get out.”

Steve looks around and crosses his arms. There’s an ominously stubborn set to his jaw when he turns his eyes back on Bucky. “I don’t think I will.”

“Why,” Bucky grinds out, taking a step forward, “ _not?_ ”

“Okay, that’s a knife,” Steve’s eyebrows have started to climb up, “Jesus, you should maybe put that down.”

“Get the fuck out.”

“Look, I’m not going back the way I came in, and you’re kind of blocking the front door.” Steve drops the paintbrush in his hand and raises his arms up.

“Why were you—” Bucky starts to ask and then, “What did you do to my _walls?_ ”

There’s a dark mass of color slapped haphazardly all over his living room walls. Now that he’s actually looking, he sees the open paint can next to the window and the newspapers carefully laid out to protect the wood flooring from spills. Steve had even thought to shift the furniture away from the walls so paint won’t get on them, and Bucky feels a flush of embarrassment creep up his cheeks as he realizes that he managed to sleep through a stranger _moving furniture_ in his own apartment.

He turns back to Steve, only to see that he’s eyeing the knife in his hand. Bucky sighs and makes a show of dropping it on the dining table. He walks forward to stand next to an armchair.

“I don’t even know why I bother asking,” he says, “but why are you painting my living room?”

Steve has the courtesy to look at least mildly apologetic, but even that expression manages to piss Bucky off. “I wouldn’t have done it if I’d known it wasn’t Sam’s apartme—”

“How did you even _get_ paint?”

He has the gall to look at Bucky like _he’s_ the idiot. “What else would I be doing sneaking into a friend’s apartment at 3 AM?”

“I don’t even know why you would do that in the first place.”

“I was being a good friend,” Steve says, rolling his eyes. “Sam can’t color coordinate a room to save his life. I was doing him a _favor._ ”

Bucky looks at him. His chin is up, his back is straight, his chest is puffed out just a little, and Bucky feels exhausted. He sighs again and drops into his armchair. “Couldn’t you have done this at a normal hour?”

“As if Mr. Military-Green-Is-A-Perfectly-Acceptable-Wall-Color would willingly let me save him from himself.”

Bucky waves a hand vaguely at his front door. “Then go away. Rescue your Sam from his poor life choices.”

“No, no, no.” Steve barks a short laugh. “When I got in here, I thought I was in the right place, and that is not a good thing, my friend.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my wall color,” Bucky says and frowns. “It’s nice. It’s chartreuse.”

“It’s _puce_.”

“It brightens the room.”

“It looks like someone pissed on your walls.”

Bucky groans and pushes a hand between the cushions of his armchair. “I do not appreciate having my decor insulted in my own home.”

“Pulling knives from furniture isn’t going to change the fact that your taste in paint swatches is godawful.” Steve rolls his eyes. “Do you just randomly keep sharp kitchen utensils hidden all over your apartment?”

Bucky cracks a smile and tucks his steak knife back between the armchair cushions. “No, I have a paranoid friend.”

“And apparently _I’m_ the crazy one.”

Bucky’s smile only gets wider. He’s tired as hell, but the whole surreal situation is starting to get an edge of hilarity to it. “Alright, genius,” he says, “if my walls look so terrible, what color would you suggest?”

“Well, you have mostly pale furniture. The upholstery is cream, and all the wood is some light grain. Probably maple. Judging by your frankly terrible paint preferences, I’m assuming someone else picked your furniture for you.” Bucky scowls, and Steve grins triumphantly. “See? I was right. A darker color would contrast nicely with all those creams and tans.” He bends down and picks up his fallen paintbrush from the newspaper, waving it idly at Bucky. “So I picked a dark brown with red overtones, similar to a burnt umber. It’ll bring out the warmth in the room.”

“Christ,” Bucky says, “you really know what you’re talking about. You an interior decorator or something?”

“Or something. I’m just a guy with an eye for composition.”

“Bullshit.”

Steve flashes a cocky smile at him. “I’ll tell you if you tell me your name.”

“It’s Bucky.”

“I teach kids art classes at the rec center sometimes.” Steve pauses with a considering look in his eye. “ _Bucky,_ ” he says, rolling the syllables on his tongue.

“Shut up, I know. It’s not a great name.”

“It suits you,” Steve says with a smile.

“I will hurt you, you fucking hipster.”

“If you keep making those threats, I might actually believe you. Do you actually have knives in the kitchen drawers? Or if I just—” Steve peers into a nearby potted plant and pulls out a carving knife, “I did not expect that to work.”

“Yes, there’s a set next to the sink. My friend got them in a buy-one-get-one sale.”

“Very economical. One for food; one for people.”

Bucky laughs, and Steve joins him soon after. He has a pleasant laugh; fuller and deeper than his build would imply but strangely arresting nonetheless. God, Bucky really is exhausted.

“Okay, okay, fine. I’m going back to bed, and you can do whatever. But if you rob me, I will _find_ you.” He doesn’t wait for Steve to respond before he stumbles back to his room and falls into bed.

 

* * *

 

Bucky wakes up to the blissful silence of an empty apartment. The thin light streaming in between his curtains say that it’s still early enough in the morning to be considered breakfast time. He sorts through the food items in his cupboards in a blurry haze, and it’s not until he drops into his chair with his coffee and toast that he fully wakes up.

His bedside table knife is on the dining table.

There’s a folded bit of paper next to it, and he reaches for it with a sigh. The paper has the building’s address on it and apartment number 3F scrawled on to it. Underneath that is a phone number. Bucky grins and settles back into his chair, idly surveying the living room to see if Steve had put everything back.

His smile drops. He had, but—Bucky growls and grabs his phone.

“Hello?” Steve’s voice is tinny but unmistakable.

“You absolute asshole,” Bucky snarls. “You didn’t finish painting the fucking wall.”

Steve laughs. “Was I supposed to?”

“You can’t just start something and leave it halfway. It looks terrible!”

He supposes that the color Steve picked could be considered nice. The early morning sunlight brings a radiance to it that really livens up the room. But it really is hard to tell with how horribly it clashes with the chartreuse—no, _puce_ —covering the rest of the wall.

Steve still hasn’t stopped laughing, but he manages to say, “I didn’t think you’d want me to finish.”

“Don’t bullshit me, Steve.”

“Okay, I ran out of paint. I’ll come over to fix it now.”

“You fucking better,” Bucky says and hangs up.

He has time to dump his coffee grounds into the sink and glare at the eyesore on his wall a little before someone knocks on his door. Bucky stomps over and opens it, glaring at Steve.

“That was fast.”

Steve smiles, and okay, it definitely wasn’t the 3 AM exhaustion that made him seem attractive. “I was at Sam’s place,” he says. “And I found the name of your wall color.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Do share with the class.”

“It’s Atomic Vomit Green.”

“Oh fuck you.”

“Won’t you rather have a nice shade of Arresting Auburn? Or perhaps Toasted Bagel?”

“You’re shitting me. Those aren’t actual paint colors.”

“I’m dead serious,” Steve says, proffering his paint can. “You can check.”

The label proudly proclaims _Rugged Brown_. “Son of a bitch.”

“I also have Spicy Hue and Gilded Glamour in the trunk of my car.”

“Seriously, why.”

“Hey, if I had to name a thousand identical shades of brown I’d start making shit up too,” Steve says, slipping past Bucky and into the apartment. He deposits his paint can on the floor and whistles at the sight of his living room. “Wow, that color looks even worse during the day.”

“Yeah, yeah, yuck it up. I keep the newspapers in the—”

“—In the cupboard next to the trash can, I know.”

Steve strolls into the kitchen and makes a beeline for the fourth cupboard. Bucky starts to move the couch away from the wall, feeling the beginnings of a headache coming on. “Can you at least pretend that you haven’t broken into here before?”

“Now where’s the fun in that,” Steve says, emerging from the kitchen with an armful of newspapers.

“Do it for my peace of mind,” Bucky pleads. “Preserve my sanity.”

“You’re friends with someone who regularly hides knives in your furniture. I have bad news about your mental soundness, buddy.”

They grin at each other and quietly set to the task of laying the newspapers on the floor. The work goes quickly, and the silence that falls over them is surprisingly comfortable. Bucky isn’t exactly the best around strangers, but simply existing alongside Steve is oddly pleasant.

Maybe it’s the fact that in daylight, he has freckles and dimples when he smiles and bangs that are just long enough to flop into his eyes when he looks down. The parts of him that are too big or too small cobbled together onto one mismatched body, and it really shouldn’t be as endearing as it is. He has blue eyes, Bucky notices. Blue eyes, a touch large on his face, framed by long, fair lashes.

“Alright,” Steve says when they finish. “Let’s get started then.”

There’s only one paintbrush, so Bucky steps back to watch him work. The paint goes on in long, even strokes, and it’s obvious to even his untrained eye that Steve knows what he’s doing. He’d even laid down strips of blue painter’s tape along the edges to keep the wall moldings clean. For the parts close to the ceiling, he takes off his shoes and steps on a chair to reach. When he catches a glimpse of Steve’s anklebones underneath the rolled-up cuffs of his jeans and finds them charming, Bucky knows he’s _fucked_.

Steve pauses and steps away from the wall with a considering air, and Bucky wonders if he’d made some sort of sound to tip him off. But Steve simply flashes an impish smile over his shoulder and begins to paint something on a clear patch of wall. It quickly resolves into a caricature of Bucky waving a knife threateningly with an exaggerated scowl on his face. It’d be insulting, but the likeness is so absurdly impressive that Bucky has to admit he’s rather flattered.

“Of course you’re an artist,” he says, walking up to stand beside him.

“Freelance.” Steve daubs a bit of paint on his nose, and Bucky sputters and swipes it off.

“Jesus, what was that for?”

Steve turns back to the wall and says, “You turn red when you’re mad. It’s cute.”

“What are you, _nine?_ ”

“Twenty-six, actually.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “God, you’re such a piece of shit.”

“But you like it,” Steve says, and Bucky’s grateful that his back is turned when he says this because his mouth stretches into a smile without his permission. God forbid Steve discover that he’s actually _fond_ of him.

“I don’t,” he says. “I have no idea why I put up with you.”

Steve turns to Bucky and grins at him. “I might have some idea.”

 

 

* * *

 

It’s late afternoon by the time the wall is finished. The sun hangs low in the sky, casting long shadows everywhere. The world outside his window has been rendered flat and grey by the fading light, but the inside of his apartment is warm. They’ve opened the windows to let the breeze in, but the air is still heady with the smell of paint fumes.

Bucky sits curled in his armchair, looking at Steve’s sprawl of limbs on the couch. He watches the thin skin of Steve’s eyelids as he dozes, the wispy, blond hairs on his neck, his oversized shirt riding up to show the jut of a hip. Steve shifts, turning drowsy eyes on Bucky.

“This is fun,” he says. “Watching paint dry.”

Bucky snorts. “As if you had anything better to do.”

“Maybe I did.”

“You can leave. The door’s right there.”

Steve settles deeper into a throw pillow. His hair is sticking up at odd angles, and Bucky suppresses the inexplicable urge to ruffle it. “Nah,” he says. “Your couch is comfortable.”

“Careful where you sit.”

Steve flicks a look at him then carefully reaches a hand behind the cushions. His eyebrows climb up, and he pulls out a small paring knife. “Are you kidding me?”

Bucky snickers. “Nope.”

“How the fuck do you even remember where they all are?”

“I don’t.” He coughs ashamedly at the look of utter horror on Steve’s face. “I just make sure to be very careful.”

“ _Bucky_ ,” Steve says, shaking the knife at him.

“Don’t look at me like that. I know it’s not the best system, but I haven’t stabbed myself yet.”

“You fucking _idiot_.”

Bucky feels his cheeks heat up. He stands abruptly and flees for the kitchen. “Shut up. I’m going to make dinner.”

Steve groans and buries his face into the couch. Bucky leaves him to it.

He sifts through the leftover meats from assorted takeout boxes in his fridge, feeling oddly keyed up. He decides on fried rice, even though the time it takes to cook is probably longer than it’s worth.

There’s something meditative about washing the rice in a pot, rinsing and pouring out the murky white water until it’s clean. It’s more efficient to use a strainer, but the feeling of the individual grains running through his fingers does wonders for settling him down. He leaves the rice cooking on the stove with a timer and goes to find Steve.

Bucky doesn’t have to go far. Steve is leaning over the dining table with his lips pursed together. There are about a dozen knives scattered in front of him, and he’s inspecting a steak knife with a dismayed expression.

“Is this _blood?_ ”

“Uhh, yeah,” Bucky says and plucks the knife from his hand. “My friend got angry at her boyfriend, and she ahh—lightly stabbed him.”

“She _stabbed_ him?”

“Lightly! He was cool with it!”

Steve frowns at him and crosses his arms. “This is slightly concerning, Bucky.”

“Only slightly?” Bucky asks.

“Well, as long as they had a safe word.”

Bucky snorts and wipes the knife blade with the hem of his shirt. The rusty stains are proving to be surprisingly resilient. “Yeah, they do. It’s my name.”

Steve’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. “You’re shitting me.”

“I’m not. Clint’s low-key terrified of me, and Natasha is like my sister. There’s no faster boner killer than the sound of my name.”

“You’d think it wouldn’t work. It’s a good name to say in bed,” Steve says with a considering tilt of his head, “I mean, it’s awfully close to fuck.”

“Are you saying assonance turns you on? That is obnoxiously hipster.”

A lovely shade of color creeps up Steve’s cheeks. Bucky grins when it begins to reach his ears. “God no,” he moans. “I dated a poet. He was the _worst_.”

“Was all his dirty talk in iambic pentameter?”

“Worse.” Steve ducks his head into his hands. “Rhyming couplets.”

“Oh my god,” Bucky says before doubling over with laughter. He has to lean on one of the dining chairs in order to remain standing. If Steve was pink before, he’s positively crimson now.

“Shut up,” he says brandishing one of Bucky’s knives at him. “I have literally all your knives.”

Bucky shakes his head and reaches underneath the chair supporting his weight. He emerges with a gleeful smile, and Steve’s eyes widen. “Not even close,” Bucky says and starts to laugh again.

“You have a knife duct-taped to the bottom of your dining chair.” Steve drops his knife on the table with a look of utter disgust. “You win. This is unbelievable.”

“What’s my prize?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “I haven’t decided yet.”

The timer for the rice rings behind Bucky, and he hurries back to the kitchen to take it off the heat. A little bit of garlic and the leftover takeout meat in hot oil, then soy sauce and sesame oil with the rice in a large pan. He cooks an egg and some vegetables in a separate pan then throws them all together.

Steve wanders into the kitchen as Bucky starts to finish up, and he calls over his shoulder, “Hey, there’s shears in the drawer next to the sink and scallions in the window box, can you get some for me?”

Over the hiss of the stove is the drawer’s low grumble behind him, and Steve says, “So you really do keep knives in the kitchen.”

“I’m not going to chop my vegetables with the knife Natasha used to stab her boyfriend. That’s just _unsanitary_.” Steve chuckles lightly, and the drawer closes. There are no telltale clunks of thick-soled boots on tile, and Bucky turns away from the stove to look at him. “What’s wrong?”

Steve twists the kitchen shears in his hand and bites his lip. For some reason, he looks almost—guilty. “I think,” he says, casting his eyes downward, “I might have stepped on your scallions when I came through the window last night.”

Bucky groans.

“Of course you did,” he growls with a glare at Steve. “Go check how much you fucked them up. You better not have crushed my basil, or I will _end_ you.”

“Roger that,” Steve says with a mocking salute as he strolls out of the kitchen. Smug bastard.

Bucky thumps his head against the side of the refrigerator then turns back to pushing food around the pan. He squints at it dubiously. It can’t be considered fried rice by even the most generous of standards, but it probably tastes alright. Bucky turns off the heat and sighs.

Steve tromps back in with a handful of battered but otherwise intact scallions. “Your basil’s fine, and your parsley can probably be salvaged.”

Bucky breathes deeply through his nose and lets the air gust out after a long moment. It could’ve been worse, he supposes.

“Chop the scallions for me, would ya?” he asks. “Cutting board’s in the third cupboard. You know where the knives are.”

Steve snorts and does as he’s told. Bucky leans a hip against the counter. Steve moves easily around his kitchen, and there’s just something about the way he fills a space that draws Bucky to him. The knife thunks crisply as it meets the cutting board.

“You’re really bad at this,” he says, eyeing the pile of mangled stalks. He walks over with a put-upon sigh and body checks Steve away from the cutting board. Bucky snatches the knife away from him and sets to rescuing the scallions. It’s a simple task, and soon he’s sliding the scallions into the pan.

“Enjoy the shitty fried rice,” Bucky says when they settle at the dining table to eat. The knives are still piled high in the center, and they both carefully set their bowls down amidst the various handles and blades.

“Why do you grow your own fresh herbs if you’re not a good cook?”

“Wow, rude.”

Steve takes a bite and starts to laugh. “Okay, this is _not_ fried rice.”

“Shut up, I did say it was shitty.”

“It tastes fine, but my god, it isn’t even remotely close.”

“At least I can cut vegetables properly,” Bucky growls.

“Man, you go right for the throat.” Steve clutches his chest dramatically. “I don’t think I’ll ever recover.”

“You can paint a wall like a pro, but somehow you manage to fuck up chopping scallions.”

“Competence at a useless skill and complete hopelessness at anything remotely useful—it’s the hipster way.” Steve folds his napkin primly and flashes a smirk at Bucky.

He rolls his eyes. “You’re so pretentious.”

“Thanks, I work hard at it. I have an image to maintain, you know.”

“This is something you _aspire_ to?”

“It sells paintings,” Steve says with a wink. He slides off into the kitchen for a second serving, leaving Bucky alone to contemplate his taste in men. Even after all this, he still _somehow_ finds Steve unreasonably appealing.

 

* * *

 

They end up back on the couch in the hours after dinner. Steve is half under Bucky’s legs, and in this late hour, they’re both half-asleep already. He stares at his hair, gleaming in the overhead lights, and the prominent bones of his wrist, and in this proximity, Bucky can feel how warm he is.

There’s a certain intimacy in this. The paint fumes have mostly cleared out, but he still feels almost heady with it. He presses a finger against the back of Steve’s neck, who shuffles against the upholstery but otherwise does not seem to notice. He slides his hand up to Steve’s hair and carefully threads his fingers into it.

Bucky’s breathing is slow and deep, matching the steady rise and fall of Steve’s chest. When he sighs and tilts his head into Bucky’s hand, he realizes that he’s been asleep for a while now. His hair is soft and the color of thick honey in the incandescent light, and he tugs gently at it just to see the small wrinkle that forms in Steve’s brow. When Bucky’s attention drifts to the shape of his mouth, half-open and slack, he starts to untangle himself.

He almost manages to detach himself entirely when Steve stirs from sleep and mumbles, “What time is it?”

“Almost one in the morning.”

“Liar, I can’t have been asleep that long.”

“And what reason would I have to lie to you?”

“Plenty. If you convince me that it’s late, I may be forced to stay the night. And who _knows_ what could happen between two young, unattached men in the early hours of the morning.” Steve is probably trying to go for provocative when he says this, but the effect is thoroughly ruined by the large yawn punctuating the end of his sentence.

“Given last night’s display,” Bucky says wryly, “I sincerely doubt that you have any qualms against crashing at your friend Sam’s place at odd hours.”

Steve casts a mock sullen look at him. “Ulterior motives, Bucky. You can’t hide from me.”

“You’re right. You’ve ruined my plans. What ever shall I do.”

“Nothing,” Steve says, yawning again. “I’ve foiled all your elaborate schemes.”

Bucky pokes his cheek. “You should probably at least go to Sam’s place to catch some sleep. You were up late last night.”

Steve sends him a sly look, and he half expects him to start making jokes about sliding into Bucky’s bed. Instead, he stretches and sighs out, “You’re right.”

Steve makes for the door, pausing at the threshold to look back at him with sleepy, half-lidded eyes. His rumpled clothes, his tousled hair, and the soft, expectant expression on his face when he hesitates at the door is enough to break Bucky’s resolve, and he gives in to the impulse he’s been suppressing all day.

He reaches out and ruffles Steve’s hair, messing it up thoroughly. Steve is just sleepy enough to press into the contact like a cat. He runs his nails gently along his skull, and Steve goes loose and boneless under his hand. He sighs contentedly, but when Bucky withdraws his hand, he scowls up at him.

“You asshole,” he grumbles.

Bucky starts to laugh. A pair of hands grabs him by his collar, yanking him down until he’s nose-to-nose with Steve. He goes very still. They’re so close that he imagines he can feel Steve’s eyelashes brush his cheek when he blinks. He can definitely feel the warm puff of air against his skin as Steve breathes. The expression on his face must be hilarious because Steve’s frown softens. He huffs a chuckle before pressing their mouths together.

Steve has chapped lips and is just a bit too rough when he bites at Bucky’s bottom lip, but everything about him is so, so warm. It’s intoxicating. Bucky sighs into the kiss, feeling a tension he’d been holding inside him all afternoon finally uncoil. He presses a hand against the side of Steve’s face, cupping his jaw, softening the kiss into a declaration of—well, he supposes he can sort that out later.

All Bucky can care about at this moment are the points of contact between him and Steve. Their lips slide and catch against each other, Steve’s hands loosen on his collar and spread over his shoulders, and Bucky’s fingers play over the hint of stubble on Steve’s jaw.

Bucky brings his other hand to brush the soft hairs on the back of his neck, and Steve pulls away with a curious look on his face. “You really do have a thing for my hair,” he says.

“It’s just very soft,” Bucky says with an embarrassed chuckle.

Steve tugs firmly at his bangs. “Well, then I like your hair too.”

“Bit too early to start exploring kinks, isn’t it?”

“You’re insufferable.”

“I aim to please.”

They both fall silent. Steve scuffs his shoe almost shyly against the side of the door frame. It is so tempting to simply ask him to stay. Already he can see it all laid out before him—simply existing adjacently, neatly slotting each other into their own lives. Bucky can feel it so keenly: this shifting and aligning of chance. He opens his mouth to say it, but Steve is already turning away.

He watches him go with a tightness in his throat. When Steve turns the corner, he sighs and ducks back into his empty apartment. The lights are all still on, and the air feels stagnant. Bucky looks at the couch where Steve had spent the majority of the afternoon—gangly limbs on cream upholstery against an expanse of warm brown wall.

He stops.

The halls of the building are long, and the elevator has been broken for the past month. Bucky’s never been more grateful for this than the moment he bursts out onto the stoop of the apartment and catches sight of Steve just before he rounds the street corner.

“Hey!” Bucky shouts, and Steve stutters to a halt. “You hipster piece of shit, were you just gonna walk out without pay?”

He can hear the bark of Steve’s laugh from all the way down the block. It’s harsh at the edges and obnoxious and not even close to pleasant, but still it’s the best thing Bucky’s heard in ages. Steve spins around and runs back to where he is standing, laughing the entire way. Bucky catches him before he can overshoot, spinning the both of them around.

Steve presses his face into his chest, shoulders still heaving with mirth. “Buy me coffee,” he says, his voice muffled by Bucky’s shirt, “then we’ll call it even.”

“An overpriced latte and a stale croissant is not even close to fair.”

Steve leans back and looks Bucky in the eye. “Then you’ll just have to take me on lots of coffee dates,” he says.

“You smooth fucker.”

Bucky presses a light kiss on Steve’s mouth and draws back before he can respond. He smooths a hand against Steve’s hip, savoring the sensation of rough denim against his palm, then gently pushes him away. Steve smiles crookedly up at him.

“There’s a cafe a few blocks over.”

“I know it,” Bucky says.

“Ten o’clock. Saturday morning. Don’t be late.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

When Steve strolls away this time, Bucky doesn’t feel the need to watch him go. He slips back inside, imagining Steve’s walk home. The street lights brighten the way. Maybe he would call Sam to let him know he’s home safe. A space that Steve lives in would be eclectic and cluttered, he thinks. Organized chaos. He would kick off his shoes and lean against the wall, breathe in the scent of home. Paint and freshly washed laundry like Steve does.

Then maybe Steve would stuff his hands into his pockets as he shuffles into his bedroom. He would pause, pull out the scrap of paper, and look down at it. The building address, the phone number he’d scrawled down the night before, and 3F with an extra line in red.

3E. Bucky’s name. Bucky’s phone number.

Bucky strides back into his apartment, smiling as he wonders what Steve’s expression will be like when he finds it.

Saturday can’t come soon enough.

**Author's Note:**

> come talk to me on [tumblr](jinlinli.tumblr.com)!


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